


No Tragedy, No Poetry

by prouvairing



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Courfeyrac, Christmas Fluff, Grey-romantic Enjolras, M/M, Multi, No Plot/Plotless, Queerplatonic Relationships, Romantic Courferre, mentions of pre-romantic E/R
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3061922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/prouvairing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where there's a Christmas market, animal-shaped hats, and heaps of banter and spontaneous physical affection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Tragedy, No Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> I am warning you that this has no plot. I am aware that it has no plot. But I wanted to write some mindless queerplatonic fluff, because we don't have enough, and thus.  
> This has been mostly finished for a month, but holidays have been so busy I didn't manage to finalize the details until now.... Yes, I am aware I am late for Christmas fic. Sorry!  
> (And yes: grey-aro Enjolras again)
> 
> Title is from _Quiet_ by Lights.

The river glitters at their side, and the bank is filled with chatter and lights, and people lingering in front of the stalls. Enjolras can smell something rich and sugary in the air – candied apples, or crêpes, or maybe funnel cake. Further ahead, he can see the biggest hot dog stand he's witnessed yet.

The Christmas market is bright and lively, cold nips at his nose but his ears are snug in a knit hat - Courfeyrac's gift, last Christmas - and Combeferre is warm at his side, and everything is absolutely fine.

Except Courfeyrac is nowhere to be seen.

Combeferre - decidedly taller - stretches to see over the crowd.

"You'd think, with that bloody hat, he'd be easy to spot," he mutters, his hand on Enjolras shoulder, boosting himself even higher.

Enjolras sags under his weight and protests, "Hey!"

Combeferre sighs and drops back down from the tips of his toes. He holds his hot chocolate in both hands and takes an irritated sip. "He probably stayed back to check out some trinket or other. I bet it was the scented candles."

"Let's walk back, we'll find him," he says, and reaches out to take Combeferre's hand.

He's starting to pull him back the way they came, when Combeferre hisses. "Your hands, Enjolras," he says. "They're ice."

Enjolras knows this, thank you very much, he's the one whose fingers have been numb for at least five minutes. "It's fine," he says.

"No. It isn't," says Combeferre, on a sigh. He hands his chocolate over, and takes one of Enjolras' hands in both of his, trying to rub some warmth into it.

Enjolras takes the chance to steal a sip of chocolate, but wrinkles his nose when he detects more than a hint of rum.

Combeferre smiles good naturedly. "Serves you right for not asking."

"Right," Enjolras replies. "Next time, get something I like too. How am I supposed to nick food from you, otherwise?"

An older lady, with a toddler pulling at her jeans, stops by them and gives them a soft smile. When they notice this, she merely shrugs and says, "You guys make a very cute couple."

Combeferre is the one to smile back and thank her kindly, while Enjolras half-glowers at his cup of chocolate. Combeferre takes his other hand. "It's not like we're not a couple."

Enjolras grimaces around the rum, even though he is not obliged to keep drinking it. "You know as well as I do she assumes we're a romantic couple."

Combeferre shrugs. "She probably does. Want to go after her and explain the concept of queerplatonic relationships?"

"God no," Enjolras replies, and hands him back his cup. "Come on, now, let's go find Courfeyrac.”

Going backwards, it seems, serves no purpose. They make it all the way to the end of the market, where the knit animal hats are, but there is no sign of Courfeyrac.

Enjolras huffs. "This always happens. How do we always manage to lose your boyfriend?"

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. "I'm sorry," he says, slowly. "I'm pretty sure he's _your_ partner".

"Oh no," says Enjolras with a smile, still pulling back the way they came. "When he gets lost in big crowds he's _your_ boyfriend."

That is, of course, exactly when Courfeyrac emerges on the crowd, with his bright yellow hat, and says, "Here you are! Jesus, I stop talking to the nice lady selling homemade soaps for _one second_ and you guys just disappear. Some of us don't have long male model legs, you know?"

His partners, however, are silent, too busy staring at the three crêpes Courfeyrac holds in his hands.

Finally, Combeferre says, “Yes, indeed, he _is_ my boyfriend.”

Enjolras, still eyeing the Nutella crêpe like it’s gold, replies, “Excuse you, he is _my_ partner.”

Courfeyrac puffs up, cheeks red with the cold. “Why, boys, no need to bicker, there’s plenty of Courf to – ”

That’s about when Enjolras and Combeferre dive for their respective crêpes, and leave Courfeyrac to mutter, “Oh, I see how it is.”

Combeferre, who eats so fast it’s probably slightly unhealthy, has already wolfed down half the crêpe, when he bends over to drop an apologetic kiss on Courfeyrac’s cheek.

“Hold on, you smudged Nutella on him – did you say handmade soaps?” says Enjolras, reaching out to wipe at Courfeyrac’s cheek.

Courfeyrac lights up and says. “Yeah! The lady selling them says they’re natural soaps. Her husband has a sweets stall down the road: But anyways, that’s how they make a living, you know. They’re going pretty strong. She’s got a few shaped like Disney characters but they’re almost all gone, you should come see them. Also, are your fingers actual icicles?”

“Oh my God!” Enjolras cries, and turns right around to stomp towards the handmade soap stand.

He’s engaged in conversation with the lady for at least half an hour. He listens closely with his best severe expression – the one that makes you believe that whatever you are saying is genuinely the most important thing right now. By the end he has bought a supply of soap to probably last them months.

“Enjolras, come away, the nice lady has other customers too,” says Combeferre gently.

“Combeferre, you don’t understand, we need to pick one for everyone. Look, there’s a giraffe that looks just like Marius.”

Combeferre smiles at the lady and hooks an arm under Enjolras’. “Don’t be rude, Enjolras.”

Enjolras frowns. “I wasn’t. It wasn’t meant to be an insult.”

Combeferre is saved from having to reply by Courfeyrac taking Enjolras’ hand again and saying, “Alright, we’re back here anyway, you just _have_ to reconsider buying the animal hats for everyone.”

Combeferre shuts his eyes briefly, sighs, and holds up his travel cup. “I am going to need a refill. If you both move from the animal hats stall, I swear to God I am going to put a _leash_ on you.”

That said, he stalks off, following the smell of coffee and chocolate.

Courfeyrac and Enjolras watch him go, then Courfeyrac sighs and wraps an arm around Enjolras' shoulders.

"Come, I swear, the baby chick hat would look _terrific_ on Bahorel."

Enjolras curls his own arm around Courfeyrac's waist absentmindedly, wondering whether he should have gone get himself some non-alcoholic hot chocolate as well.

"We can get you some later," says Courfeyrac, bumping him with his hip. "You look like you're regretting your choices."

Enjolras grins at that, and bumps him back - which earns him a kiss to his temple - letting himself be led to the animal hat stall. If he catches sight of the lady who complimented him and Combeferre earlier, looking mightily confused, that's only for him to know.

The hats are, admittedly, extremely cute. He knows they are, at the very least, buying the chick-shaped one for Bahorel, but he thinks a few of their friends might like them too.

"I mean, just think of Joly's face if we presented him with the little sheep hat - and oh, the baby bird one would be perfect for Jehan."

Enjolras, still cuddled up to Courfeyrac's side, runs his fingers along a green frog-shaped hat, brow furrowed in thought.

"Do you like that one?" Courfeyrac asks. His voice has turned suddenly much gentler. "Anyone in mind?"

Enjolras sighs, and there's really no use denying what they both know. "Do you think Grantaire would like it?"

Courfeyrac's arm tightens around him. "I think he'd love it. And I think he'd like it even more if you gave it to him."

Enjolras' frown deepens, and he draws an even deeper sigh. "I don't know."

"You don't have to decide now," Courfeyrac says, and puts a giraffe hat on top of his pile because yes, it does look a little bit like Marius. "You can take all the time you need."

In the way they don't always need words, they both know that they're not just talking about a frog-shaped hat. And Enjolras knows how Courfeyrac understands the way these things scare him. And he knows that the fingers tugging gently at his hair tell him, 'I'm here, on your side, no matter what.'

They end up buying the five, though they swap Jehan's bird-shaped hat for a rooster hat for Bossuet ("No, it's a cock," says Courfeyrac. "It's cock-shaped. Trust me, Bossuet will appreciate the difference.").

"Now come on," Courfeyrac says. "Let's go find our lovely doctor and get a move on, I think I've seen a stall that sells these super fancy organic cheeses. You totally have to get Feuilly a selection, he'll love you forever."

Enjolras - whose squish on Feuilly burns fierce as daylight - starts pulling him along decidedly faster.

They meet Combeferre coming in their direction with a refill of chocolate and another one in hand – which he hands to Enjolras with a scowl.

“I told you to stay put,” he says. “You _are_ getting a leash.”

Courfeyrac sighs, long-suffering, and steals Combeferre’s refilled cup with utmost nonchalance. “I swear to god, I’m ace as they come and even _I_ can’t stand by while you keep talking about leashes like that.” He pauses, then adds solemnly, “Combeferre… that’s kinky.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Come off it, you’re like a giant walking innuendo.”

Courfeyrac winks, and says, “Emphasis on _giant._ ”

Combeferre snorts and looks halfway between exasperated and impossibly fond.

"Move along now," he says, finally. "We barely made it halfway through the market, and we've still got presents to buy."

They waste about fifteen minutes at the cheese stand, mostly because Enjolras keeps pointing excitedly and reading out complicated names of cheeses he knows nothing about.

His partners, to be fair, aren't any less enthusiastic about the idea. They know Feuilly rarely indulges himself, especially when it comes to his favourite foods - and there's probably no one more deserving than him.

The rest is divided between picking out a set of hand-carved wooden dragon figurines for Jehan, and trying to wrap their minds around presents for the girls.

"You know what," Courfeyrac pipes up. "I've got a cock for Bossuet, a sheep for Joly, and lo and behold - animal shaped pendants! Help me pick another barn animal for Musichetta."

"We can't buy them _all_ jewellery, Courf," Combeferre interjects. "That would be too transparent."

"Pretty sure I saw a stand of vintage photography paraphernalia that Cosette would be all over," says Enjolras. The others quite rightly let him have his way, when it comes to his sister.

Eponine is trickier, but they make do with a set of fancy teas, because she is just as unlikely to indulge herself as Feuilly.

"I think my nose is going to fall off," says Courfeyrac, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His smile is still wide, and there are high spots of red on his cheeks.

Combeferre hums thoughtfully and bends down to kiss his nose. "I think you might be right."

"Is that your professional opinion?" asks Enjolras, whose hands are once again being rubbed between Combeferre's.

"As a matter of fact it is," Combeferre says.

"What do you suggest then, doctor?"

Combeferre stuffs one of Enjolras' hands in his pocket, grabbing Courfeyrac on the other side. "Well, I suggest we all get home before we freeze our bums off."

They make their way into the underground heavy with bags, huddled together as close as they reasonably can without blocking the entirety of the sidewalk.

*

Christmas Eve is a loud, boisterous affair – all of their friends press themselves in one flat, usually one of their triads’, as they’re definitely the largest ones.

This year, it’s Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta's turn to host, and everyone comes around at eight and doesn't leave until midnight is well and truly passed.

Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac make their wobbly way home - Combeferre mildly tipsy and Courfeyrac decidedly unsteady on his feet. Enjolras, with a mere two glasses of Prosecco in him, scattered along the length of the night, would very well consider himself the last sober man standing.

Courfayrac wraps an affectionate arm around his shoulder, hooking the other around Combeferre's waist, and it is not the most convenient way to walk, but Enjolras isn't complaining.

Their presents were a success, and he still feels some warmth in his chest at that - he never says much when presents are opened, but seeing people's faces light up in awe or pleasure or laughter is always his favourite part.

He took Courfeyrac's advice, as well, and gave Grantaire his hat personally. The way his blue eyes had grown big as saucers, and the tentative smile on his face - so unlike the mocking grin Enjolras usually earns - keeps coming back to him. It might be chilly outside, but he doesn't feel it very much at all.

They tumble into their living room, giggling, and don’t make it as far as their bedrooms.

The crooked Christmas tree they made up together weeks ago twinkles softly and throws shadows on Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s faces – they’re sitting on the carpet, leaning against the sofa, and they have not moved by the time Enjolras comes back with pillows and blankets for all of them.

“Hey,” whispers Courfeyrac, pressed between them. “It’s Christmas morning, technically.”

Combeferre grunts something somewhere in the vicinity of Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“ _Technically_ ,” Courfeyrac starts again, but Combeferre doesn’t let him finish.

“You want to open presents,” he says.

“Yes!” hisses Courfeyrac. “We’ve opened everyone else’s! I just want to see your faces, _please_ , Ferre?”

Enjolras knows Combeferre is going to cave before he even sighs. He’s already crawling across the floor to grab the few boxes under the Christmas tree.

They’re buried in colourful paper soon enough, and Combeferre and Enjolras are temporarily wrapped in hand-knitted scarves, respectively blue and red.

“Let me guess,” Combeferre says, smiling. “You’ve made one for yourself, too.”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Courfeyrac draws out, sing-song.

“And _maybe_ ,” says Enjolras. “It’s white.”

“We’re going to match, it’s going to be so cute!”

“Alright,” Enjolras says, as he unwraps a pair of red fingerless gloves. “I’m sensing a pattern here.”

Combeferre reaches over and kisses his cheek. “It’s so you can keep typing and doing things but also keep your hands warm.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but slips the gloves on before reaching for his own presents to his partners. Combeferre stares for a long time at the heavy, gorgeous leather bound book Enjolras gives him, looking ready to sniff it when he opens the pages, the spine giving a satisfying crack.

“It was buried deep in a second hand store,” Enjolras explains, with a faint smile.

“You can believe that, love, he had to take _two_ showers after we walked out,” Courfeyrac chimes in.

“Oh my God,” Combeferre gasps, skimming the contents. “It’s jokes.”

Enjolras is still smiling. Courfeyrac says, “It’s not _just_ jokes…”

Combeferre says, awed. “They’re _terrible._ ”

Courfeyrac hooks his chin over Combeferre’s shoulder and reads, delighted, “What do you call a fish with no eyes?” He pauses, as is proper. “A fsh.”

Combeferre snorts, eyes still glued to the book, and reaches out to squeeze Enjolras’ fingers. “Points for originality, Enj.”

Courfeyrac, meanwhile, is making cooing noise at the copy of _1989_ he just unwrapped. “I _knew_ you secretly liked it when I played Taylor Swift!”

Enjolras, with great dignity, says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The last present to open is Courfeyrac’s, and he spends at least ten minutes trying not to cry over the book of piano/vocal selections from his favourite musical, that Combeferre managed to have signed by none other than Charles-François Myriel, from the original cast.

“How did you even do it, oh my God,” he whispers, from where he is perched on Combeferre’s lap, following an enthusiastic tackle-hug.

“He went stage door, of course,” Enjolras says. “Might I mention we didn’t even go see the show?”

Combeferre’s cheeks, to his endless appreciation, are dark enough that it isn’t obvious he is blushing. He bites his lip, however, and his tells are obvious enough to the other two.

“Well, Enjolras came with me,” he deflects.

“Right,” Enjolras says. “It was no problem. Except, you know, for the cold. And Myriel showing up after everyone else.”

“After eleven,” Combeferre says. He kisses the back of Courfeyrac’s fingers. “But worth it.”

Courfeyrac’s smile takes up half his face, bright as day. “You’re the _best._ ”

They stay like that for a while, trading soft conversation, and Courfeyrac’s head is lolling by the time they all finally settle down to sleep. He’s awake enough, however, to firmly pull Enjolras into the centre.

“You know we love you, right?” he mumbles, somewhere against the back of his shoulder.

Enjolras rolls his eyes, though Courfeyrac can’t see him. “I know, you goof.”

Combeferre, who can, kisses his forehead. “Bears repeating.”

And they do – often enough that Enjolras can huff and declare it is obvious, they need not do it all the time. But he knows – and they know – that it had been nice, if not necessary, in the first weeks after their relationship had shifted, when Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s had become romantic.

They’ve settled – they’re alright. They still make a point of pulling Enjolras in the middle as often as possible.

“Just shut up and let us love you,” Courfeyrac says, and pinches his side. “Even though your feet are freezing.”

Enjolras scoffs. “Well, if you must know, you snore.”

“I do _not_ ,” Courfeyrac gasps, and leans over to pull at Combeferre’s arm. “Ferre, tell him I do not.”

Combeferre, half drifting off, mutters, “I don’t like lying.”

“Unbelievable,” Courfeyrac is saying, in Enjolras’ hair. “Betrayal. Treachery.”

Enjolras pulls him closer and snaps, “Sleep.”

They are going to regret sleeping on the floor, when they wake up with their necks and backs screaming mercy, but for now the Christmas lights make everything soft, and they are warm, and loved, and they’re alright.


End file.
